The Last Post
by firewaterspaceairearth
Summary: Mrs Hudson read John's blog. Of course she did. Everything on it was true, and therefore the only reliable way of knowing what had happened to her boys. That's why it hurt so much when she read the last post. Post-Reichenbach.


_If you recognise it, it's not mine._

* * *

Mrs Hudson read John's blog.

Of course she did.

Like Inspector Lestrade and the rest of the police force, like that nice girl Molly, (and she had her suspicions about Mycroft), she knew that it was the only way to know exactly what had happened to her boys.

Sometimes she read with a smile, shaking her head fondly at descriptions of insults and deductions. Sometimes she read with a hand to her mouth, scrolling down past scenes of bombs, guns, crossbows. Either way, she didn't berate the two men when they came in late, soaking wet, covered in dust. Not until she checked John's blog a couple of days later, and found tales of poisoned pills, death threats, swimming pools, hallucinative gas.

Like everyone else who cared about Sherlock, Mrs Hudson knew this was the only way to keep track of his movements. Like everyone else, however, she only knew what John wrote, which probably wasn't everything. And even then, John only knew what Sherlock let him.

One thing was certain.

Everything John wrote was what he believed to be completely true. That's why it hurt so much when she read the last post. It made her remember that night, when the door clicked shut and she breathed a sigh of relief, until John came upstairs.

Alone.

With a dark bruise blossoming on his cheekbone and a look in his eyes which could only be described as broken. "Sherlock?" she'd asked, although she already knew, deep in her heart. John had shaken his head, stumbling past her to his chair.

"He's gone," he'd said, voice hollow and empty. "He's just...gone."

"What happened?" John swallowed, looking as if he was about to be sick.

"He jumped. From Saint Barts. He called me, and told me to watch as he fell. He told me to watch him die," he had choked, voice breaking. Mrs Hudson knew that expression. It was the face of a man who had lost everything he cared about. It was the face which she'd seen too often, on men stumbling towards pubs, away from their troubles. So she did what she always did, the only thing she knew was safe in a time like this.

"I'll get you a nice calming cup of tea, John." While she was downstairs the tears fell, silent and choking. Inspector Lestrade came, presumably to see John. She could hear the shouting from upstairs. The neighbours wouldn't be too happy.

"Don't just _stand_ there and tell me he's dead, Lestrade!"

"John-"

"I know he's dead! He spoke to me, and I _saw_ him die with my own eyes!"

_ "John-" _

"I _don't care_ if you or Molly or the bloody Queen needs me to identify the body, I _can't_ go there, and-"

"John! Listen to me. There's a lot of red tape to get through now. The media won't help, they all think that he's a criminal or something."

"Yeah, because some _bloody _idiots had him arrested."

"Look, John. I had my doubts about Sherlock sometimes, but I would_ never_, not even for one second, believe that he would kill himself because of his reputation. Because the Sherlock I knew would never give his enemies what they want. Stubborn idiot."

"The Sherlock you knew never had _friends_ either."

When silence had fallen over the flat, Mrs Hudson carried the tray up, rattling and clinking softly. John was leaning heavily against the DI, and he was crying. In all the months he had been living at 221B, Mrs Hudson had never seen John Watson cry.

"He was my best friend," John murmured softly. Lestrade patted his shoulder slightly awkwardly.

"I know, mate." Mrs Hudson placed the tray on the table. Lestrade guided John's hand to a mug. He gripped it like a lifeline, eyes vacant. Lestrade nodded his thanks, eyes fixed on the man who seemed to be shutting down before them. As she made her way to the door, she couldn't resist asking.

"He didn't suffer, did he?" John's eyes flicked upwards for a brief second.

"Not physically, no," Lestrade answered. Mrs Hudson nodded, and left the room. Behind her she heard John's breath hitching, Lestrade murmuring comforting words, except nothing would work, because Sherlock was gone.

And he wasn't coming back.


End file.
